CHAPTER XII
A FLY TO LEFT-FIELDER
Jack sat on the players' bench, chin in hands, elbows on knees, andwatched Centerport High School go down in defeat. It was the firstgame of the season for the varsity, and, judged by high standards,it wasn't anything to be proud of. At the end of the sixth inningthe score was 9--0 in Erskine's favor, and not one of the nine runshad been earned. The error column on the score-sheet was so filledwith little round dots that, from where Jack sat, it looked as thoughsome one had sprinkled it with pepper. If, so far, there had been anyencouraging features they were undoubtedly Joe Perkins's catching ofGilberth's erratic curves and Knox's work at shortstop. The outfieldhad conscientiously muffed every fly that had come its way, and onlythe quick recovery of the ball had, on several occasions, preventedHigh School from scoring.
Joe Perkins looked disgusted whenever he walked to the bench, and theexpression on the countenance of Hanson, the head coach, was one ofbewilderment. "It's simply wonderful!" Jack heard him confide to Joe."I don't see how they do it. I can understand how they can muff everyother ball, say; but the whole-souled manner in which they let everyone slide through their fingers is marvelous!" And Joe had smiledweakly and turned away.
When the men trotted out for the beginning of the seventh, Jack slidalong the bench to where Patterson, the team's manager, was scowlingover the score-book. Jack had never spoken to Patterson, and a week agohe would have hesitated a long while before risking a snub by doingso. But since his return from his "visit" with Professor White thetreatment he had received from the other members of the team had beenso decent that he was ceasing to look upon himself as a Pariah andwas regaining some degree of assurance. He studied the book over themanager's shoulder a moment. Then he asked:
"Pretty poor, isn't it? Do you think Perkins will put any more subs in?"
Patterson glanced around with a flicker of surprise in his eyes. Buthis answer was friendly enough:
"I don't know what he'll do. But if the subs can play any better thanthe men he's got in there he'd better give 'em a chance. Where do youplay?"
"Almost anywhere, I guess. They've had me at left-field, right-field,and second base. I guess I'll be in the outfield if I get in at all."
"You'd better go out there and help Northup," said the manager, as hecredited Motter, at first base, with his third error. "I don't supposeit matters much whether High School scores or not; only I would like tosee Erskine have a clean record this year. And to get scored on in thefirst game looks pretty rotten. Who made that assist?"
"Stiles. Can't Gilberth pitch better than he's doing to-day?"
"Of course he can. He's all right when he tries; he evidently thinksthis game isn't worth while. But I'll wager that Hanson will havesomething to say to him afterward. Side's out. Stiles at bat!"
Erskine managed to find High School's pitcher to good effect in thelast of the seventh and piled up four more runs, two of them fairlyearned. When Erskine trotted into the field again Hanson and Perkinshad materially altered her batting list. King, who had been playingin left-field, went into the pitcher's box, and Jack was sent out toleft-field. Griffin succeeded Joe as catcher, Mears took Motter's placeat first, and Smith went in at shortstop.
Jack watched events from his position over near the rail fence and wasnever once disturbed; for King retired the opposing batsmen in one,two, three order, and the sides again changed places. Jack didn't havea chance to show what he could do with the stick, for High School,following Erskine's lead, put a new man into the box, and the new manpuzzled the batsmen so that only one reached first, and was left therewhen Billings, third-baseman, popped a short fly into the hands of HighSchool's shortstop. Jack trotted back to the rail fence very disgusted.
It was the last inning. The sun was getting low and the chill of earlyevening caused Jack to swing his arms and prance around to keep theblood circulating. Over by the bench he could see them packing the batsaway, and a little stream of spectators was filling around behind theback fence toward the gate. High School had reached the tail-end ofher batting list again, and, to all appearances, the game was as goodas finished. But last innings can't always be depended upon to behaveas expected. The present one proved this. High School's first man atbat heroically tried to smash a long fly into outfield and, all bygood luck, bunted the ball into the dust at his feet. After a momentof bewilderment, he put out for first and reached it at the same timeas the ball. High School's noisy supporters took new courage and awokethe echoes with their fantastic war-whoop. King looked bothered for aninstant, and in that instant struck the next batsman on the elbow. Thelatter, rubbing the bruise and grinning joyfully, trotted to first andthe man ahead took second.
"Huh," muttered Jack, rubbing his chilled hands together, "somethingdoing, after all."
But King settled down then, and, after three attempts to catch the HighSchool runner napping at second base, struck out the next man verynicely. The succeeding one, finding a straight ball, bunted it towardfirst, and, while he was tagged out by King, advanced the runners. HighSchool's supporters, gathered into a little bunch on the stand, wavedtheir flags and ribbons, and shouted frantically. For surely, with menon third and second and their best batter selecting his stick, a runwas not unlikely. Hanson shouted a command and King, repeating it,motioned the fielders in. Jack obeyed, doubtingly, for he had watchedthe present player and believed him capable of hitting hard. And so,although he made pretense of shortening field, he remained pretty muchwhere he had been. And a moment later he was heartily glad of it.
For the High School batsman, a tall, lanky, but very determined-lookingyouth, found King's first delivery and raced for first. Along thebase-lines the coaches were shouting unintelligible things andflourishing their caps. The runners on third and second were runninghome. In the outfield Bissell, center-fielder, was speeding back,cutting over into Jack's territory as he went. Jack, too, was going upthe field, yet cautiously, for the shadows were gathering and it washard to tell where the little black speck up there against the purplesky was going to fall. Yet when, with a final glance over his shoulder,he took up his position, and heard Bissell, panting from his run, cry:"All yours, Weatherby!" he never doubted that he would catch it. ToJack a fly was merely a baseball that required catching; and he wasthere to catch it. So he took a step or two forward, put up his hands,and pulled it down. Then he threw it to second-baseman and trotted in.
When he reached the plate the applause had died away and the remainderof the audience was hurrying off the field. The players were findingsweaters and, having thrown them over their shoulders, were hurryingacross to the locker-house. Jack, searching for his own, heard Hanson'svoice behind him:
"Well, Joe, we've got one man who can catch a ball, eh?"
Jack knew that he wasn't supposed to hear that remark, and so he tookhis time at pulling his white sweater out of the pile. When he turned,the head coach and captain were walking away. Jack followed, feelingvery thankful that he had not missed his one chance of the game. As heentered the door he almost ran against the coach. Hanson smiled intohis face as he stepped aside.
"That was a very fair catch, Weatherby," he said.
And a moment later, when, wrapped only in a big bath-towel, he washurrying to the shower-room, "Baldy" Simson clapped him on the backwith a big hand.
"That's the lad now," he cried heartily, adding then his invariablecaution: "Easy with the hot water, and don't go to sleep!"
At dinner-table Jack thought the other fellows looked at him withsomething like respect. And all, he reflected, because he had caught aball he couldn't help catching!